


tuesday, wednesday, break my heart

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Developing Relationship, F/F, First Time, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Implied Sexual Content, No Metaverse (Persona 5), POV Second Person, au where makoto is a buff gay mess you heard me, excerpts of their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-05 23:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20281894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: she says you need to get better at holding hands.





	tuesday, wednesday, break my heart

You grow your hair just long enough to complain about how messy it gets in the summer. You forget your clips on purpose, misplace the hair-tie on your wrist, and she smiles at you just long enough for you to know that _she knows_ what you're doing, but doesn't mind. You tell her how hot it feels around your neck and you realise, as she braids it in front of the mirror, her nails are the same colour as her lips, her tights, her phone case and your cheeks. You won't undo the braid until the day before you see her next, just so you can listen to her laugh as she runs her fingers through the wavy locks.

"You look so beautiful."

You're not sure how she says it so easily, how she can touch you so gently without a second thought. You lean into her, let your face find comfort in her shoulder and your arms to her waist—she hugs you back. You want her like this always; you won't forget what this feel likes, because you'd never forgive yourself if you did.

"Can I braid it again, Mako?"

You almost fall asleep in her hands, twice.

* * *

She wakes up earlier, takes a different train, and surprises you every morning.

"You don't need to come here every day just because of me", you remind her as you're printing off your course outline. She smiles at you strangely, like what you'd said didn't make sense.

"I know", she tells you, "but I want to."

* * *

She says you need to get better at holding hands.

"No offense, but you kind of suck." She's smiling at you, and it makes you laugh. She's ordered a Frui-Tea and her eyes are sparkling—you've decidedly forgotten your exam prep.  
  
"How can I improve?", you ask. She hooks her foot around your calf under the table and leans her cheek against her knuckles: you have the feeling she's fond of your inexperience, that maybe she finds it endearing.

"Just squeeze my hand a little tighter, yeah? I like to know you're right there with me."

You blush because you always do and for once she blushes too, leaning across the table with eyes half-lidded and leaving a press of lip-gloss to the corner of your mouth.

"You're so sweet", she murmurs.

You're quite the mess after that.

* * *

It's your first sleepover, you tell her. You're not sure what to do.

What we always do, she replies.

_You don't. You don't. You don't._ She makes you feel so hot and alive and so blindingly bright that you briefly worry if this has all been some kind of feverish dream—but she feels so good against your skin, so cool and smooth. _It must be real_, you think. _You love her_, you decide when you feel your back arch under her fingers. _Oh_,_ you _love_ her._

"I can't really remember my first time", she considers later, feet swaying in the air as she picks at the cotton on your singlet. Her weight is heavy over you, dense and comforting like the weighted blankets you can buy for anxiety. _Nice to meet you marigold_, you imagine him telling her. Yellow hair, green skirt—and he'd probably smell of_ lily, jasmine_ and _rose._ "He actually asked me if I'd ever heard of the_ 'age of consent'_. As far as I knew, it was his favourite song. It's not upsetting or anything, I just wish I understood what was happening, you know?"

Her skin is still glowing with sweat, pigtails tangled down her back and falling over both of your chests; she blows a raspberry between her lips and drops her head to your stomach, tracing circles on your side. You rest your palm on her back, feel her breathing deepen.

"I wouldn't even count it as my first time, anyway", she adds eventually. "I'd rather count _this_ as it. I feel so happy with you."

And when you find her in the middle of the night she's wearing your shirt with her slippers on the counter, eating a leftover croissant from lunch and scrolling through her phone—you have never seen a more enamoring sight.

"Sorry", she smiles self-consciously. "I didn't wanna wake you up."

"I couldn't sleep anyway", you lie.

(You feel happy with her, too.)

* * *

"Sometimes I just want to scream it."

She grins at you, so big and bright and terrifying—a splinter in your thigh you don't want plucked out, a burning reminder of how she's touched you. She swings her arms around your neck and you steady her before she topples you both backwards to the ground.  
  
"So scream it", she dares.  
  
"Right here?", you ask.  
  
"Right here", she repeats.  
  
"Anyone could hear me-"  
  
Her head tips back, exposing her neck and pulling your chest against hers. Her waist is small in your hands and she laughs, she yells: _"I love Makoto Niijima!"._ When she leans in to kiss you, you don't want to close your eyes. You don't want to even breathe. Your feet stutter and your hands grip too tightly and she laughs again, knocking your teeth together and bumping your noses—so warm and incredibly alive. She holds your foreheads together and you can feel her eyelashes on your cheek: butterfly kisses, like your father used to do.

_I love you_, you think. _I love you._


End file.
